


The Love of Every Single One of My Lives

by jellybeanforest



Category: Marvel (Comics), Marvel 616
Genre: Abusive Relationship, Angst, Bottom Steve Rogers, Canon Divergence, Classism, Coercing a partner to change their appearance, Controlling Behavior, Dark Tony Stark, Darkfic, Drunk Sex, Dubious Consent, Extremis, Heartbreak, Hurt No Comfort, Immortal Tony Stark, Immortality, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Insanity, Isolation, M/M, Murder, Possessive Tony Stark, Post-Civil War: The Confession, Reincarnated Steve Rogers, Reincarnation, Skinny Steve Rogers, Stony loves Steve, Suffocating Love, Top Tony Stark, Tragedy, Twisted love, Unhappy Ending, Unreliable Narrator, nonconsensual voyeurism, nonlinear storytelling, unhealthy relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-30
Updated: 2020-06-30
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:01:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24914281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jellybeanforest/pseuds/jellybeanforest
Summary: Tony loves Steve, and he will always love him no matter how many times he has to bury the man before he gets it right.For Stony Loves Steve 2020. Loosely based on a prompt by farawatt.
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Comments: 42
Kudos: 82
Collections: Stony Loves Steve 2020





	The Love of Every Single One of My Lives

**Author's Note:**

  * For [farawatt](https://archiveofourown.org/users/farawatt/gifts).



> Title is from ‘Blue Moon’ by Alyson Noel about a teenage girl and her immortal lover who finds and loses her every time she is reincarnated.
> 
> This fic is canon divergence post-Civil War, not a complete AU. The first scene is lifted directly from “Civil War: The Confession” comic. It pretty much ignores everything that happens after, including Tony losing Extremis, his brain deletion, and Steve’s resurrection. Instead of being resurrected, Steve is reincarnated over and over again.
> 
> This is loosely based on the following prompt by farawatt: 
> 
> “Every seventy years, a blond, blue-eyed boy is born, whom Emperor Anthony (an immortal) calls Steven. When Steven is twenty-three, it behooves him to take the place of his predecessor. No one alive is left to witness this ceremony. It means that neither Steven knows the existence of the other. Nor what happened to the previous one.”
> 
> Farawatt also requested: Dark!Tony, canon divergence, angst, unhappy ending, darkfic, and hurt no comfort. Basically, Tony is the villain in this even if he tries not to be, and I implore you to please read the tags again. If this type of fic is not your thing, turn back now.
> 
> To farawatt, I hope you like my interpretation of your prompt. 
> 
> And thanks to Sineala for helping me with the 616 characterizations of Steve and Tony. I did not realize Tony is actually a good, conscientious boyfriend (occasionally with boundary issues) in the comics.

_“One more such victory would utterly undo me.”  
_-King Pyrrhus of Egypt, quoted by Tony Stark in _The Confession_ in reference to a victory where you win at such a devastating cost that it is tantamount to defeat.

“I would like to tell you a story, a real one this time,” Tony tells the seventeenth Steve cradled snugly in his arms. “I would like to tell you the story of us.”

Eyes closed, he leans down, touching his forehead to Steve’s. He breathes in, savoring his scent, his warmth. “Once upon a time – before the fall, before the war – in the time before memory, there were two men…”

* * *

Captain America sulks in a S.H.I.E.L.D. Helicarrier prison, confined behind blue energy beam bars. Though his uniform is tattered and torn, he is every bit the superhero he’s ever been. He makes small talk with the soldiers tasked with guarding him. Steve reckons he’ll be hanged for treason, though the man keeping watch – the kid, really – doubts it.

“They can’t hang Captain America,” he says.

They can, and they will, if the man in charge needs to make an example of what happens to detractors.

It’s clear the kid doesn’t like his new boss, a perfectionist who criticized their response in the wake of victory. “Well, sir, if I may speak freely, he’s kind of a–”

“Director on deck!”

Speak of the devil.

Director Stark approaches the cell in full Iron Man armor, his helmet on and face concealed behind gold plate, to gaze upon the prisoner, the national icon who had been his lifelong hero, his friend and partner in more ways than one, before the Superhero Registration Act irreparably damaged the bond between them as both took up arms against the other in the name of cause greater than themselves.

Still–

“Will you excuse us?” Tony addresses the guards without turning away from Steve.

The kid hesitates. “Y– Yes, sir,” he says before exiting with his compatriot.

Tony continues to stare at Steve, who remains hunched over, his head dropped low and eyes closed.

When he hears the footsteps recede out of earshot, Steve opens his eyes but can’t even look at his former lover. “What?”

“I _begged_ you to stop,” Tony says, because it’s true. If only Steve had fallen in line, given his gold seal of approval that meant so much to so many, the resistance would have crumbled, civil war averted before it even started.

But then he wouldn’t be Captain America with the trust of the many, if he so easily put aside his scruples, flouted his own principles. Tony had known early on that Steve would never give way, not even for his sake, and yet he opposed him anyway, knowing this would always be the inevitable result.

“And I think you may be mentally ill. You think I’m old. Out of touch. Deluding myself. You’ve made that perfectly clear, and maybe I am. But you’re an ill man. Do you know that?” Steve states, his tone frank, low and even. “You have a new suit you can’t control, new powers you don’t understand–”

“No. I have powers you don’t understand,” Tony feels the need to interject.

The reply is harsh. “I understand them _fine_.”

Tony looks down at Steve through his visor, looming over the large man who now sits, reduced in circumstances but not yet beaten. “If that were true, then you would have won,” he says, a touch indignant. Steve had always been a sore loser. He never knew when to quit. Tony had always liked that about him, until that unrelenting resolve had turned against him.

Steve peers up at him, at that unreadable mask he is aching to tear it off. He wants to gaze at the face beneath and gauge just how heartless, how callous Tony could be towards a man he once loved, a man who in the end would rather surrender than deal the final killing blow. But there is something he wants Tony to _understand_ , and so he asks, “Do you think the fact that I’m in here means you won?”

“Uh, yes.” _Obviously._

“ _We_ maintained the principles we swore to defend and protect. You _sold_ your principles. You _lost_ this before it started,” he tells him, his expression open and angry, full of disgust and perhaps even a little pity.

Something in the pit of Tony’s stomach sinks, because Captain America is right. He is always right, even when he is on the wrong side of the conflict. Tony had had to do terrible things, align himself with people both of them despised, but it was all for the sake of the greater good: the preservation of the Avengers, the survival of the very idea of a superhero. Tony wishes Steve could see the forest through the trees.

Steve wishes Tony could see the rot creeping in those trees.

“Do you actually think the fact that you know how to program a computer makes you more of a human being than me? That I’m out of touch because I don’t know what you know?” he asks, bitterness seeping through. “I know what _freedom_ is. I know what it feels like to _fight_ for it, and I know what it _costs_ to have it. You only know _compromise_.”

Tony is silent at that, so Steve continues his diatribe. “’Man is the only animal that deals in that atrocity of atrocities, war. He is the only one that gathers his brethren about him and goes forth in cold blood and calm pulse to exterminate his kind. He is the only animal that for sordid wages will march out and help to slaughter strangers of his own species who have done him no harm and with whom he has no quarrel… And in the intervals between campaigns he washes the blood off his hands and works for the ‘universal brotherhood of man’ – with his mouth.’” He leans forward. “Do you know who said that? Go find out. _Because he was talking about you!!_ **_You_** made this war! **_You_** birthed it into existence by sheer force of will. And _now_ look at you – King of the World. **_I want to know!!_** I want to know what the hell made you think this was your job to do? Who made _you_ the moral compass of us? How could you lay down with the people you’ve laid down with? Tell me, ‘Director Stark,’ tell me, was it worth it?”

For once, Tony is speechless, without defense.

“ ** _Was it worth it?! Tell Me!_** ”

Was it all worth the deaths of many of their friends? The dissolution of the Avengers? The destruction of that beautiful fragile thing between its two leaders?

_Was it worth the end of us?_

Two days later, Tony sits before a lifeless Steve Rogers, his helmet removed and shoulders heaving, tears rolling down his face, confessing the one thing he should have told Steve but now will never be able to tell anyone:

“It wasn’t worth it.”

* * *

A millennium passes, and Tony eagerly awaits the arrival of the most recent version of his lover, fondly recalling the seventeenth occasion during which he had met Steve Rogers for the very first time.

The man (the boy) had been eight and undersized for his age, wearing a large patched jacket, drawn-up hood, and boots – clearly tattered hand-me-downs that were much too large for him – and carrying a brown paper sack full of items from the small convenience store nearby that served as the neighborhood grocer. If one didn’t know better, the boy’s attire would seem inappropriate considering the heat, but it was fitting for a resident of a district where sulfur hung noxious in the air, lending it the distinctive smell of rotting eggs, and radiation and heavy metals such as lead and arsenic laced both atmosphere and soil leeching down into the drinking water itself.

Steve had stopped on the corner to wait for Tony’s sleek capsule-craft to pass. Instead, Tony had gazed out of the UV-protected window, catching the boy’s eye, his demeanor becoming increasingly uneasy the longer Tony’s craft idled before turning the corner to park next to him.

Tony had exited, immune to the pollution that surrounded them thanks to his upgraded Extremis, and walked up to Steve, confident and surefooted in his approach. The boy had simply watched, wary, stepping back as Tony drew closer. He looks around and behind to scope out more likely destinations for such a rich, well-dressed individual. But when Tony stopped short just in front of him, Steve had shifted on his feet and coughed nervously from behind the mask obscuring half his face, designed to keep out the poison dust that had already settled into his asthmatic lungs. Tony couldn’t quite see the child’s features, but he would recognize him anywhere. It is the bond, drawing him closer to Steve’s soul, like a divining rod towards water.

Tony never really knew what to say to Steve when he was a child, much less how to relate to him when he is so under-ripe and barely recognizable as the man he is and will grow to be, so instead Tony canted his head to the side, regarding the boy with a curious expression.

“Hello again, winghead.”

Steve snuck a peek behind himself again, first over the right shoulder then the left for good measure. His eyes had remained downcast. “Um… my Ma always told me not to talk to strangers.” He dug a toe of his boot into the cracked asphalt.

“Good thing I’m not a stranger.”

Tony had smiled. Steve hadn’t.

That had been fifteen years ago, and today Steve will be coming home to live with him.

Permanently.

His parents had been well-compensated, of course. Tony had lifted the entire family out of poverty once he found Steve, bought them a house far away in a secure, well-heeled area of one of the best cities in Tony’s home district, away from the crime and radiation poisoning of the badlands. He also regularly dispensed generous stipends for their upkeep, a small bonus all things considered, enough to firmly establish their other children in the safe comfort of upper-crust society, to mix and blend in amongst their social betters, breathing the clean rarefied air of elite academies and exclusive social clubs. Of course, Tony had had minimal contact with Steve in the intervening years, only sending him congratulatory monetary contributions on academic milestones as well as gifts on his birthday (his _real_ birthday, not the one on his birth certificate), but when the time came, when he had deemed Steve finally old enough, he had come to collect his due.

It was to be expected. Everyone knew of the eccentric immortal, Tony Stark, the man who permanently altered the social order centuries ago, who solidified the ruling class’s grip on humanity by extending their lives and consolidating the power of the select few who could afford the genetic enhancements offered by Extremis. Stark is a recluse, an enigma, a man who lived alone in his proverbial ivory tower, selecting only a single companion in a generation. The _same_ companion or so he believes, over and over, at least according to rumors whispered from boardrooms to charity events and garden parties.

And so, Steve’s parents weren’t selling their third child to him, Tony had insisted. No, they were simply the custodians, the vessel, from which his long-lost beloved sprung forth this time around. And now that Tony has found him again, Steve will know nothing but comfort and luxury the rest of his days.

If it still made them uneasy to release their child into the hands of a deluded (but beneficent) madman, well… Steve was an adult now, and he had assured his parents himself that he had wanted to go.

(If he had observed all the advantages Mr. Stark had bestowed upon his family and made a calculated sacrifice to maintain the man’s favor, he does not say, and Tony never asks.)

Steve will come to love him eventually; Tony will make sure of it.

This time.

* * *

The sixth Steve Rogers had been the fifth child (third surviving) of a large impoverished family Tony had similarly helped.

The very first night of his permanent residency, Steve had struggled with the fasteners of his pants due to what Tony had assumed (and hoped) was nervous excitement. It had been just shy of forty long lonely years since Tony last made love to his Steve, and so he had enthusiastically partaken from what had been on offer. In hindsight, it had been a mistake. Steve had been stiff, all knees and elbows, and even when they got his limbs sorted out, his body was too tense for it to have been pleasurable. No amount of assurances could make him relax, and Steve had excused himself to cry in the bathroom after. Tony had felt awful, so he doubled down and tried harder to solve the riddle that was Steve’s new body. Night after night. He was gentle with him; he was rough. He gave Steve a safeword – red – that he never used. Steve just spread his legs and took whatever abuse Tony wanted to inflict on him that night.

Things hadn’t been perfect, but there was always an adjustment period, or so Tony told himself.

But outside the bedroom, Steve would do disturbing, confusing things. He became withdrawn, angering easily at the smallest, most-innocuous stimuli. He claimed not to be hungry, often declining Tony’s dinner invitations or simply picking at his food, moving it around with his fork until it grew cold. Unsurprisingly, he lost weight no matter how much Tony attempted to coax him into healthier habits. His personal hygiene also suffered when he neglected to shower for days at a time, and he refused to wear anything that fit, unless Tony asked him nicely, on special occasions. Sometimes (more frequently than Tony liked to remember), he had small injuries of mysterious origin, usually explained away as Steve having cut himself shaving or having slipped while peeling fruit, even after Tony had invested in safety razors then laser hair removal and instructed the chefs and house staff to cut the man’s fruits and vegetables for him.

By the time Tony realized what was going on, it had been too late, the damage irreparable. Steve had closed himself off to Tony emotionally, finding solace in the arms of a security guard Tony had assigned to him. He had caught them in flagrante delicto four days before they were planning to run.

Tony had not reacted well.

He had done _things_ , horrible unspeakable things, licked the salty tears off Steve’s face frozen in terror (frozen forever), burned through two subsequent Steves in less than eighty years in his rage. He is better now, less angry, but he had learned three things that cycle:

  * He shouldn’t move too fast in establishing a sexual relationship with a new Steve,
  * Humans are messy, faithless creatures. Only staff he had built can be trusted _not_ to betray him, and
  * Tony had done and will do monstrous things for love.



* * *

Tony has seen the footage.

He knows the most-recent incarnation of Steve is olive-skinned, with dark curly hair and matching brown eyes, his frame more delicate than what Tony is used to seeing due to environmental and nutritional deficits in early childhood. Tony doesn’t care. He can’t do anything about his stature – nothing Steve would agree to, anyway – but he has B.E.T.T.Y. relax and dye Steve’s hair the perfect shade of golden brown with tawny highlights and stocks Steve’s ensuite bathroom with multiple sets of blue contacts in his prescription. Of course, Tony could have fixed both the man’s vision and appearance with Extremis, but Steve had never approved of his greatest invention, and the old ways work just as well, even if they did require a bit more upkeep. Then again, Steve never was a stranger to doing everything the hard way. At least this time, Steve had a dick. Sometimes, he had a vagina, and though it had been a novelty every time, it was always harder to see the real Steve underneath, even with the lights off. It’s not that Tony loved him any less; he just had his preferences when it came to his reincarnated lover.

“Oh Steve… Steve,” Tony greets him, wrapping his arms around Steve’s back to pull him close, tears in his eyes. “How I have missed you, beloved. Come now, C.H.E.F. has cooked up a veritable feast of all your favorites to welcome you back home.” He steps away, his hand sliding down Steve’s arm to grasp his hand at the terminus. Steve interlaces their fingers. Tony’s heart stutters then soars. “It’s been forty-three years. Can you believe it? And so much has changed. If you need anything, anything at all, just say the word, honey.”

“I– I think I’m good for now,” Steve stammers, allowing Tony to lead him into the dining hall.

Dinner is a quiet affair. Steve barely eats, barely speaks. He simply picks at his food, sneaking glances up at Tony and the antique clock, his cheeks burning. Tony makes small talk to fill in the silence, prattling on as if little time has passed between the sixteenth Steve and now. The man before him is just one in a long line of Steves, different upon first glance but the same deep down in the marrow of his very bones.

Tony takes a sip of wine. “I will always come for you, Steve,” he states rather seriously.

Steve gives him an odd look. “How can you be so sure that–” he doesn’t finish that thought, likely not wanting to jeopardize his benefactor’s favor.

“You’ve asked me that every single time, you know,” Tony replies wistfully. “I just know. I can tell. It’s a side-effect of…” he looks at the legs of wine sliding down the sides of his crystal goblet. “I searched for a way to bring you back the first time you died. I consulted wizards, necromancers even. You don’t remember, but I’ve always hated magic. Yet what I wanted, what I needed… it was a matter of the soul, and science has never been able to find a satisfactory solution.” He swirls his glass. “Just know we’re bound together, you and I. Sixteen times I’ve found you since, and my love for you has never wavered, even when–” a pause, another sip “–I know you don’t love me right now. You never do in the beginning, but you will… eventually.”

Tony could see the answer leaves Steve unsatisfied. It is not particularly surprising. Steve may be an idealist in principle when it when it came down to what is right, what a nation as a whole should strive for (back when there had been nations instead of conglomerates and oligarchies), but in personal matters, he has always been a pragmatist.

“But… but why?” he can’t help but ask. “It’s been centuries. Surely you could have found another in all this time.”

“There isn’t another like you out there. Not for me.” And it’s as simple as that.

Afterwards, Tony invites him to the screening room, where he shows him old films from his prior lives, transferred from film to digital, preserved, upgraded and restored throughout the centuries. There’s the first Steve in splotchy black-and-white, punching Nazis in his Captain America get-up, then decades later, in color, fighting alongside Tony himself. There’s official footage spliced with home videos. A press release by Steve, Steve pouncing on Tony to kiss his temple at Christmas, their first vacation in Amsterdam, Tony holding Steve as he flew… Tony skips the Civil War, the intervening decades when Tony sank into despair in the wake of Captain America’s death, when public opinion turned against their former heroes and nations roiled and split in the process. Instead, the footage segues from their last battle fighting as comrades into a home video of the second Steve, the one Tony found in Pan-America from the former state of Chile followed by another showcasing the third, a female Steve from a remote area within the former Chinese province of Xinjiang. On and on, through the centuries as the film turns crisper, sharper, then becomes 3-D holo-projections, rendering the long-dead Steves as realistic Technicolor phantoms.

Steve sits stock-straight, stiff as can be, next to Tony, watching his past lives. A millennium compressed into a short 156 minutes.

“You said I was the seventeenth,” Steve tells him after the projection ends, and the lights return.

“Hm?”

“There were only twelve shown.”

Tony hesitates. “Yes, well… sometimes… sometimes you were not well, and I lost you before we could really get to know each other.” And sometimes what _had_ happened was best forgotten.

Steve shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “And you believe that’s all me?”

“I know it’s you.”

Tony decides to turn in early afterwards. He has some bureaucratic e-forms to fill out, and Steve could use the time to himself to process his newfound knowledge and explore his new home. Tony had stocked his room with art supplies and various old-fashioned paper books alongside a state-of-the-art computational system, just in case. His more-recent incarnations had expressed only a passing interest in analogue before returning to sleeker, more-modern methods, but one could never tell which the new Steve preferred as a member of the new generation.

Sometimes, Tony misses how Steve had been the Man Out of Time, and Tony had been the futurist who insisted he adapt to the new century. He glances over at a framed photograph of the original Steve and Tony on their second date so many years ago, matted on archival board and overlaid with UV-protected, airtight glass.

There’s a knock at the door just before Steve enters, his expression sheepish and downcast. He walks up to Tony, but before Tony can ask whether he needs anything from him, Steve is unbuttoning his shirt with shaking fingers to pull off one side to show the smooth, unblemished skin of his shoulder.

Tony reaches over to pull it back up. “You don’t have to do that,” he tells him, returning to the screen to expand out the form to read the fine print. The devil is always in the details, he knows. A man must take it slow, do the reading so to speak, if he is to get what he’s after.

In the corner of his eye, Tony can see Steve, the confusion and embarrassment clear on his face.

He shifts on his feet, looking uncertain, even younger than his twenty-three years. “I– I thought–” he mumbles, “I thought you wanted me.”

Tony turns then, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. “I do, honey, but… but I don’t want it if you aren’t ready. Maybe when you get to know me better, hm? Wouldn’t you prefer that?”

Steve nods.

“Alright then. Off to bed with you. Sweet dreams.”

“Good night,” he replies, exiting soon after. Tony minimizes what he had been working on to expand the security camera following Steve’s journey down the hall and into his bedroom. He unzips his pants, fondling himself as he watches Steve turn on the shower and strip. His shirt comes off to reveal the smooth expanse of his back followed by his pants and underwear exposing the rounded muscle of his ass.

Tony squirts out a dollop of lube, giving himself a stroke when Steve dons a shower cap, steps into the spray, then turns around to wet his body.

His frame is smaller than Tony is used to seeing on him, his body more compact. With the enhanced strength from Extremis, it wouldn’t be too difficult for Tony to pick him up, maneuver him into the desired position, hold him steady and sink into that too-small channel. His body would clench uselessly on Tony’s dick, trying to expel the intrusion, but the glide would be tight, warm, and perhaps not quite slick enough.

Steve lathers up to scrub his face and neck, the suds building and sliding down his glistening body.

Tony speeds up, imagining his grip is Steve’s body. At 23, Steve is so young, and in Tony’s fantasies, he would whimper but not say anything to deter Tony from taking what he wants how he wants, assuming the fault lie in his untrained ass. Tony wouldn’t hurt him… much. A few pumps maybe inspiring tears to spring from his eyes – _Oh Steve, honey,_ Tony would say, _do you need more lube?_ – before pulling out to slick himself up properly. He’d work himself back in, slower this time, treating Steve like he deserves, and Steve would be grateful for the accommodation. Tony knows he can’t make it too easy for Steve. Sometimes, he has to hurt him a little in the beginning for Steve to understand just how much Tony loves him.

Steve’s attention turns to his body next, his right hand slipping over his left arm and shoulder then the reverse. He soaps up his chest before circling lower over his trim waist, following his happy trail even further down to wash his dick.

Tony comes when he watches Steve reach around to clean his ass, fingers sliding down between his cheeks. He steadies himself with a hand grasping the edge of his work station, waiting for his breathing to even out before he wipes down the glass and metal surface. Finally, he spares one last glance at Steve toweling off before making use of his own shower.

* * *

Their very first date had been a disaster.

Tony had planned on taking Steve to a private after-hours viewing of the latest MoMA exhibits followed by a nice dinner at a little Italian spot culminating in a late-night burlesque show. He had hoped to invite Steve up to his penthouse for some “dessert,” but instead, fate in the form of the Wrecking Crew had crashed their date before it could begin, and Tony had spent the night in a hospital bed, nursing a concussion and bruised ribs alongside several abrasions while he and Steve shared a meal of questionable ham and cheese sandwiches with a side of green off-brand gelatin.

 _So much for romance,_ Tony had thought. Sighing, he tapped the jello with his spoon, watching it undulate. “I do not like green eggs and ham,” he deadpanned. “I do not like them, Sam I am.”

“I’m Steve,” Steve had said before grasping the sides of Tony’s face to stare into his eyes, checking the evenness of his pupils.

“It’s Dr. Seuss,” Tony had tried to explain as he waved off the man’s concerns.

Steve had only frowned, reaching for the call button to summon Dr. Cho.

* * *

Tony is not one to repeat past mistakes.

And so while he had kept his distance, he had also kept an eye on the seventeenth Steve, keeping tabs on him through the years as he aged into someone Tony could recognize. Though Steve had proved a good student at the academy, he was also a troublemaker, getting into fights he couldn’t possibly win against bullies almost a head taller and twice as wide. Whether it was in defense of himself or someone else, he always stood up for what he thought was right, even when clearly outmatched. It often landed him in detention alongside his tormentors due to the academy’s zero tolerance policy on physical altercations. That wouldn’t do, so like a guardian angel (or an overly-concerned helicopter parent with the money and motivation to really lean on the academy’s board), Tony would arrange for the other boy to be transferred to a different school the following week. After the fourth such incident, Steve had gained a reputation as untouchable. Other students whispered that he may be the bastard son of the principal or possibly that of a favored whore of someone rich and very powerful. Combined with his checkered background as a former resident of the badlands, the rumors made it harder for him to make and keep friends, further isolating him from his upper-class peers. Tony had felt awful about the development but he would never apologize for ensuring Steve’s safety and that he didn’t struggle unnecessarily.

Steve deserved the very best, after all.

(It never occurs to Tony that ‘the very best’ may have been a different, more-diverse though still competitive school more accepting of someone like Steve.)

The surveillance also meant Tony is aware of this incarnation’s inexperience and insecurities, his soft bits so to speak… enough to exploit them anyway.

“I was thinking…” Tony tells him not too long after, when they are watching a film on the holo-projector, Steve tucked in against Tony. “Would you like to go on a date?”

Steve looks up, canting his head to the side. “A date?” he repeats. Once he took up permanent residence in the mansion, Steve never leaves the premises without Tony – too dangerous – but Tony supposes it had been a while since they went out together.

“Yes, honey. New Amsterdam is nice this time of year. We could make a long weekend of it. Maybe do some diving… or snorkeling. You aren’t yet certified for diving. Then we can head north for the Van Gogh Museum and the tulip fields,” he elaborates, his tone casual. “What do you say?”

“Alright.”

* * *

New Amsterdam is inland from the site of the original city, which had undergone the process of controlled abandonment centuries earlier due to rising sea levels. Waves now gently lap over the submerged remains of the famous Dutch dikes, encircling a popular area for diving for those who wish to see the ruins of the once-prosperous city. Back in the early days, the Dutch government had tried to save the land by raising the dikes much taller than their historical heights, reinforcing their defenses with sand, and pumping out the water that leaked through. Years of trying to combat the leakage ultimately led to dangerously high salt levels in the soil, dealing a fatal blow to Dutch agriculture, until migration was their only viable option.

Tony thought they had done well, all things considered.

Steve is a proficient swimmer. At the academy, it was one of the few sports where he could keep up with the other students. Tony lies back on a reclining chair under a cabana, watching the man’s navy cap and tanned shoulders surface and skim across the gently undulating surface.

When Steve emerges from the water, he makes his way back to collapse in a chair beside Tony.

“Have a good swim?”

“Yeah, it’s nice here. Thank you for taking me.” He settles into a more comfortable position. “It’s different than a pool, and kind of eerie with the ruins below. Were you alive to see how it was before?”

“Yes, back in my day, it was known for being a little lax on certain vices,” Tony explains, waving around his scotch. “Alcohol was legal at 16. Not to mention their policies on weed, psychedelics…” he takes a sip. “Prostitution.”

Steve simply hums, fidgets. It’s kind of adorable.

Still, Tony feels the need to clarify, “Not that that’s what’s happening here now.”

They’re interrupted by a woman wearing a sundress and a plastic smile who approaches Tony from the other side. “Would you like a refill, Mr. Stark?”

“Yes, I’ll have another.” He turns to Steve. “You want anything, honey?”

But Steve is staring down the woman. “…No thank you,” he says crisply.

“How about a sex on the beach?” she offers instead, her voice deceptively chipper, “We could make it a virgin, if you’d prefer.”

“A gimlet, then,” Tony interjects. “If he doesn’t want it, I’ll drink it.” He waits for her to leave before gently inquiring, “So, was that a cold breeze wafting through our gorgeous summer day, or…”

Steve nervously scratches at his wrist. “It’s nothing.”

“It didn’t sound like nothing.”

“This really is a nice resort,” he says, seemingly apropos of nothing. “Clean, you know. Not even a speck of trash spoiling the coastline. Caters to an exclusive clientele of a certain caliber… or so I’ve been told.”

Tony’s brow creases at the insinuation. “Told by whom?” He already knows, but he wants to hear it from Steve.

“Your drinks, gentlemen.” The woman from before sets a scotch down next to Tony then saunters around the back to place the cocktail next to Steve.

Steve’s eyes follow her.

“Actually, I’ll have that gimlet. To go. We’re leaving,” he turns to Steve. “We’ll check into the Prinsengracht. You’ll love it. They have this spa treatment that is to die for.”

The woman is perplexed. “Mr. Stark?”

He throws back the scotch, downing it in one gulp, clanking it back on the side table. “The Prinsengracht knows to treat my guests with respect.”

* * *

Later, when Tony has their bags packed and en route to the other hotel, he escorts Steve out to the awaiting capsule craft, closing the door after him before rounding to the other side.

Steve reaches over the divide to grasp Tony’s hand. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“They insulted you. I’m not about to sit by and let that happen.”

A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Careful,” he says in mock warning. “A man could get used to this kind of treatment.”

Tony gives his fingers a squeeze. “Well, perhaps a man should.”

Steve looks surprised, but he says nothing, only turning to gaze out the window at the swiftly moving scenery.

* * *

Dinner is at an old-fashioned steakhouse, one of the few left that had been grandfathered in after the ban on large cattle farms six-hundred years prior led to scarcity. Lab-grown beef simply didn’t have the same musculature and marbling of a real steak and made for an inferior product, or so Tony claims.

He had ordered medium rare for both steaks, but Steve only ate the sides, simply prodding the delicacy in the center.

“Is there something wrong with your steak?”

Steve looks up. “I think they undercooked mine,” he remarks, poking it with his fork. “It’s still bleeding.”

“It’s supposed to do that.”

“Oh.” He looks skeptical. “Are you sure? It seems like a health hazard.”

“It is a heritage steak, safe for consumption even when undercooked. You should try it, honey,” Tony encourages him, making a show of eating his next bite. It’s excellent, aged to perfection. “It used to be your favorite.”

Steve cuts off an edge furthest from the bone, deeming it the more cooked than a central piece would be. He stares at the red center before plopping it in his mouth and chewing. The range of expressions transforming from fear to disgust to horrified acceptance are clearly broadcast on his face as he chokes down the single bite and hurriedly reaches for his drink to wash out the taste.

“You don’t have to eat it,” Tony tells him. “You can order something else.”

“No. That’s okay. I think I’m done.”

Tony finishes his steak, a touch disappointed. The younger generation simply didn’t know how to enjoy the finer things in life. Steve had always been a meat-and-potatoes man, but his most recent incarnations simply never developed the taste for it.

Steve thumbs his water glass, drawing designs into the condensation that drip down onto the tablecloth. “Are we going to see the sunflowers tomorrow?” he asks.

Now that is one thing about Steve that hadn’t changed: his appreciation of art. “Of course, honey. The series is a permanent installation at the museum. There’s even a maze of sunflowers just outside. You can take some home if you’d like.”

The ninth Steve had loved sunflowers. Tony had cultivated a garden of the bloom for him, but unfortunately, they had to be cleared away after a number of years. As it turns out, sunflowers are killers, poisoning the soil for other plants in the vicinity year after year until even their own seedlings began to wither in their wake. Tony supposes that’s how it is sometimes in nature, too much uniformity can spoil the root for future generations.

He’s already calling over the waiter for another bottle of red. “More wine?” he offers to Steve.

Steve looks at Tony’s dwindling glass and nods.

* * *

The first time Tony and Steve had made love, Tony had been surprised to discover the domineering leader of the Avengers preferred to bottom. Perhaps it had been a holdover from when he had been a scrawny invalid lacking the stamina to do little more than flail and wheeze atop his partner, but the man seemed to miss the days when someone took the initiative to take care of him, to hold him like he was someone who needed protection and affection.

Tony was only too happy to provide what Steve craved.

“Are you ready, honey?” Tony had whispered against the skin just under Steve’s left ear, two fingers seated in his slick channel while Tony’s thumb pressed into his perineum, giving him a firm stroke.

Steve shivered, his eyes large and wet, momentarily incapable of speech beyond a breathy chanting of Tony’s name.

“What was that?” he had asked, followed by another stroke.

“Tony, please.” Steve humped the air fruitlessly, trying to take Tony’s fingers in deeper.

It had amused Tony, awoken a desire to toy with him, to keep him dancing just on the precipice of pleasure fulfilled.

“I should keep you like this, desperate and pleading,” Tony had told him darkly, even as Steve, groaned, shaking his head. He settles in snugly between Steve’s legs, his lubed erection sliding up the man’s abdomen. “You make such a pretty picture, all needy and writhing.”

“ _Tony_ ,” Steve had begged, his arms weak as he gently pushes him off and down to reorient Tony’s dick to where he wants it. “ _Tony please_.”

“As you wish,” Tony said, finally removing his fingers to slide home.

* * *

Tony helps an inebriated Steve stumble into their suite, leading him to their room to collapse upon the bed. He crouches down to help him out of his shoes, but his fingers prove much too large and uncoordinated for laces, so Tony tries to pull it off instead, nearly falling back on his ass when it pops off easier than expected.

Steve snickers, then nearly topples over himself when he attempts to remove the second shoe.

“Not so easy as it looks,” Tony tells him triumphantly from the floor, holding up the first shoe and pointing the toe in what he hopes is Steve’s general direction.

“I loosened it for you,” Steve claims, dropping the second shoe beside the bed as he flops down, his head turned outwards to face the other man.

Tony rises up, practically crawling on to his feet while using the bed frame for leverage. “How do you figure that?”

Steve lifts a leg up before letting it fall. “Skinny ankles. Made it easy for ya.”

“Shoes’re still your size.”

“If I was big an’ beefy then it’d be harder.”

Tony’s brow knits. “It weren’t that hard before back when you were.”

Steve rolls towards the middle of the bed, settling onto his back, an arm limp across his forehead. “Never been big,” he says, the words slurring together, “Sorry to disappoint. I’m not big like Steve was.”

Tony drops into the space Steve had so recently vacated. “You’re not a disappointment, honey,” he tells him. “Never think that. I love you.”

“You love Steve,” Steve mumbles.

“That’s what I said.” He leans over to kiss the man’s temple then again on his cheek. When Steve still doesn’t respond, Tony kisses him fully on the lips, his hand trailing down over his chest to rest on his stomach, his fingers idly playing with a button there.

“Tony?” Steve whispers.

“Shhh, honey. It’s okay; I’m going to take care of you, yeah?” He works the first button loose before going to work on a second one. Steve is trembling with excitement. “You used to love it when I took care of you,” he says, as he unzips Steve’s pants. “You don’t remember right now, but I’m gonna show you.” He pulls them down to his knees, exposing Steve’s slim thighs and liquor-softened cock.

Steve doesn’t say anything. He only stares up at the canopy of their bed as Tony settles between his legs. Tony gives his dick a few strokes, awakening it to half-hardened interest. He doesn’t draw attention to it, not wanting Steve to feel self-conscious about his whiskey dick, but when Tony slips down behind his balls to circle a dry thumb over his hole, Steve jumps, his eyes clenching shut as he draws in a sharp breath. His body is much too tense.

“Don’t worry, honey,” Tony tries to assure him, his thumb still pressed over his tight pucker while his other hand slides up and down over Steve’s dick. “I’m not gonna do you dry, okay? I just… I want…” he gives the head an experimental lick. Steve flinches, pulls away slightly.

“It’ll feel good, I promise,” Tony says, continuing to stroke him to a full erection.

Steve seems to settle after that, so Tony goes to work, his mouth slotting over Steve’s dick above the loose grip of his hand. His tongue works the shaft, the head, alternating broad swipes of the flat of his tongue with the finer tip, exerting pressure at different points, just like Steve likes it, while his other hand roams over Steve’s inner thighs, his balls, down further back to glance against his asshole. Steve doesn’t recoil as he had at first touch. Instead, he moans, his fingers reaching down to card through Tony’s hair, to pull lightly at his tresses.

And when he comes, Tony swallows his spill then pulls off to lap the remainder from his head. He lies down next to Steve, pulling him in close to tuck him under his chin.

“I love you so much,” Tony mumbles, holding tightly to Steve while imagining another – large and muscular and angry – in his place. “I’m sorry I hurt you. I’m so sorry.”

“S’okay, Tony,” Steve replies, insisting, “You didn’t hurt me. I’m fine. I’m right here.”

That seems to calm Tony, who drops off to sleep, fully clothed beside his Steve.

* * *

The following morning, Steve nurses a hangover while Tony orders an old-fashioned cure to be mixed and sent up to their room. Tony himself is fine, Extremis having cleared the alcohol from his system with no ill effects.

Steve pulls the covers over his face, his tone miserable. “How do you do this all the time?”

Tony holds out a glass containing a dark liquid. “Here, drink this.”

Steve peeks out of the covers, then sits up to accept the glass, taking a sip before pulling a face. “What’s in this?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

Steve pinches his nose then downs the rest, gagging as he drops the glass on the nightstand with a loud click.

Tony checks the time. “You should be good in about fifteen minutes, give or take.”

“Thanks.”

He waits a beat, rolling heel to toe before addressing the elephant in the room. “About last night…”

“Don’t worry about it,” Steve says much too quickly. “It was– it was fine. It was good.”

“No regrets?”

Steve shakes his head, not quite looking at Tony, as he scratches at his wrist.

Tony clocks the nervous tic. “I’m sorry if I made you… uncomfortable. Or pushed you further than you would have otherwise wanted to go.” He keeps his hands at his side, not wanting to touch the man in case the move would inspire another flinch. “If you don’t want to do something, you can always say no. I won’t get mad.”

Steve gets up, nearly stumbling out of bed, but he holds his hand up palm out to stop Tony from assisting him. “I’m fine. I just… I want to get dressed.” He looks up at Tony, his expression pleading him to let it go. “You said we could see the sunflowers today.”

“…Of course, honey.”

* * *

For the next couple of weeks, Tony is more careful with Steve. He abstains from alcohol and restricts his touches to safe areas of Steve’s body – his shoulders, his arms and hands – as he tries to prove to him that he can be respectful, mindful of Steve’s boundaries. Tony had been in a similar situation before, had made his mistakes and knew better than to rush Steve. And so, he confines himself to his fantasies fueled by memories of that singular ill-advised night and surreptitious surveillance footage of Steve.

He can have Steve again, all of him, body and soul, if only he can wait a little bit longer. What are a few months to someone who has eternity?

Luckily, Tony doesn’t have to wait that long.

Steve had been showing Tony how to cook his favorite home-style meals. This one is a type of meatloaf using spiced meat scraps bulked up with bread filling and root vegetables and braised in a sweet stewed tomato sauce. It is baked, sliced and served between two slices of bread topped with the red braising liquid as a sort of glaze. Tony is not a huge fan, but he supposes it’s edible, and more importantly, Steve likes it.

“Try this,” Steve holds up a wooden spoon of sweetened tomato sauce.

Tony obliges, and the Italian in him dies a little from the amount of added sugar. “It’s excellent, honey.”

“Do you think it needs more sugar?”

“No,” he replies, a touch louder and faster than he had meant to.

Steve has a mischievous glimmer in his eye. “Let me check.” Then he lifts up on his tip toes to plant a kiss on Tony, his tongue darting in momentarily to taste the remains. “I think it could use a little more sugar,” he murmurs against Tony’s lips.

Tony lunges forward, gathering him up, unconcerned when the spoon clatters to the floor, spraying the remains of the sauce red across the floor. B.E.T.T.Y. will clean it up; she’s always a helpful android in such matters. Instead he concentrates on the feel of Steve against him, his hands in Tony’s hair, the inward curve of his lower back as Tony presses a hand there, pushing Steve’s pelvis close to his own so he can feel his burgeoning erection.

“Tony… dinner,” Steve reminds him.

“C.H.E.F. can finish up here,” Tony says. “He’ll have our sandwiches hot and ready. Later.”

They retire to Tony’s bedroom, kissing from the door to the bed, leaving a trail of clothing along the way, until Steve is laid out, Tony hovering over him.

Steve suddenly feels self-conscious. He looks away, arms crossed over his thin chest. “I’m not… I’m not perfect like Steve was.”

Tony blinks, his brow furrowed in confusion. “You’re always perfect,” he says, mouthing Steve’s shoulder, “In any form.” Tony doesn’t remember a time he didn’t love Steve.

“I’ve never…”

“It’s okay,” he tells him, his hand reaching for the lube in the drawer. “Let me take care of you.”

* * *

Things fall into a routine after that. Steve moves into Tony’s room full-time, converting his room to a study where he reads vociferously and tries his hand at drawing. (He’s not particularly good, much to Tony’s unspoken disappointment.) When Steve is not with Tony, he spends time with the androids, learning to garden, to cook more refined dishes himself. He also occasionally visits his family, always with Tony in tow to ensure his safety. At night, Tony makes love to Steve, filling him up until he is a moaning, over-sensitized mess. Tony thinks he is most like the original Steve when he’s open and wanting, and it becomes his goal to replicate the experience over and over.

Overall, it’s a quiet life, a calm life, secure and content…

Which is why Tony is surprised when it all starts to go wrong five years later.

It had started with a request.

“I’d like to go back to school,” Steve tells him one day, “for architectural engineering.”

Tony cants his head to the side. “Okay, I can get you set up with virtual classes if you’d like.”

But Steve is already shaking his head. “No, I’d like to go in person. On campus,” and when he sees Tony hesitate, he adds, “I don’t mean far away, just to the local college. It’s a thirty minute transport. I’ve mapped it out.”

“Why do you want to go?” Tony asks instead. “You know it’s not safe out there.”

“I just… I want…” he struggles to put it into his words, “I love you, sweetheart, but I miss going outside. I miss other people, the possibility of making friends.”

“What’s wrong with A.R.N.I.E.? I thought you liked him.” Tony had specifically made him for Steve, so he wouldn’t get too lonely when Tony had to work.

Steve rolls his eyes, massaging the line of his brow. He sucks in a breath. “Look, A.R.N.I.E. is an android. He has to like me. That’s his programming, but I need… I don’t know; I guess I want to try to make real friends. The flesh and blood variety. I want to go. Please,” he pleads.

Tony embraces him, holding him close. “Is this about your sister’s wedding?” he asks. They had attended three weeks prior. Steve was happy for her, but he seemed a touch put-out when he realized the only guests he knew were his parents, his siblings and (very minimally) his siblings’ spouses. He hadn’t even met the groom before the ceremony. Everyone had gotten along well enough, but the experience had left Steve feeling like an outsider in his own family.

“No…” he lies.

“I’m sorry, Steve.” Tony caresses his face, wiping away his tears. “I wish you could go, but… I’m a powerful man. I have enemies who would harm you to get to me. It’s just not safe.”

Steve pulls away, upset at the refusal. Tony hopes he’ll get over it soon.

He doesn’t.

* * *

Tony tells F.R.I.D.A.Y. to play Steve’s favorite record – an old Bing Crosby number from before Tony’s birth – to cheer him up.

Steve is annoyed. “Can you turn that off?”

“But it’s your favorite.”

“It’s not my favorite. I prefer music made this generation,” he grouches, slumping further into the couch.

Tony signals F.R.I. to cut the feed. Steve is clearly in a mood.

* * *

Tony cuddles up to Steve, spooning him from behind, but the man is cold, distant.

“Not tonight,” he says, his voice wooden.

Tony kisses the back of his neck, noting how his hair has grown out curly and dark again. He makes a note to have B.E.T.T.Y. fix it in the morning. “Come on, honey. It always makes you feel better.”

Steve curls away from his touch. “I’m saying no, Tony.”

But Tony’s hand slips into his shorts, fondling his dick. “Li’l Stevie wants to play,” he murmurs. “Won’t you let him?”

Tony rolls Steve onto his back, parts his legs, and shows him just how much he loves him, the very depths of his devotion.

* * *

Tony knows what's going on. Prior Steves had gone through something similar. They get antsy and bristle under Tony’s restrictions, his attempts to keep them safe in an unsafe world. Tony had tried different avenues through the years to alleviate Steve’s feelings of isolation – a security detail (never again), a dog, astral projection into the outside world – but these all proved to be band-aids patched over larger irreconcilable issues Tony had yet to resolve in prior iterations of his lover. Tony believes the answer is out there, if only he can tweak his process.

It all comes to a head the following day when Tony gently suggests Steve let B.E.T.T.Y. touch up his hair.

“That’s it!” Steve had slammed down his book, rising to confront Tony, his eyes alight with anger. “I can’t live like this anymore!”

“Steve!”

“Don’t call me that!” he snaps, advancing on Tony. “That’s not even my name. My name is Kierst!” he beats his chest with both fists in emphasis. “Kierst!”

Tony holds up his hands in placation. “Okay, honey… I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

“I– I want to be my own man with my own life. Do you even know what it’s like growing up like I did? You saw where I was born; you must know… We all wanted to escape, get out, do better–”

“You did get out.”

But the man doesn’t appreciate the interruption. “Yeah, because you think I’m Steve. And because of that, because of _Steve,_ I got out; my family got out, but no one ever talks about what comes after,” he tries to explain. “You don’t understand because you can’t– you won’t see _me_. You look at me, and you only see this blonde Adonis, this superhero you believe I used to be.” He sounds almost defeated. “You can’t understand. No one out here ever lets you forget where you were born.”

Tony recalls the man’s academy days, and even now, when he tries to take him out, people… they treat him differently, Tony knows they do. He never wanted to admit it, but where he saw the incomparable man his companion used to be and still is, others probably saw a plaything, a too-young, low-class whore hanging off the arm of an ancient oligarch with too much power for one man.

Briefly, he wonders if this is how the first Steve felt, going from a scrawny Irishman with a weak constitution to the ideal specimen, peak human they called him. Tony never wants Steve to feel small, to feel less than, ever again.

“I– I only wanted to help you. I still do. I know you haven’t been happy recently–”

“I haven’t been happy for a long time. Months. Maybe the past year. I tried being what you wanted, but I can’t… I– I think I need to live for myself from now on.”

The admission brings a lump to Tony’s throat. “Tell me what you need,” he implores him. He can fix this; he can. “What do you want?”

The answer is a downward glance to the side, a mirthless chuckle. “I’ll tell you what I don’t want,” he says, his tone growing angry once again. “I don’t want to be locked into this box I don’t fit, living out this crazy fantasy where I’m the dead man you want me to be. Steve’s dead; you hear? He’s been dead for _centuries!_ ” And now his voice drops to a whisper as he looks up to meet Tony’s eyes. “You’re not a well man, and I can’t– I can’t enable you any longer; do you understand? I can’t be your Steve anymore; I just can’t. I need you to see me, to recognize me as I am and not as the ghost of someone you’ve lost a long, _long_ time ago,” he tells him. He stops then, his body hunched inward as he admits, “I– I love you, Tony, but I don’t know if you are even capable of loving me back.”

“I can, honey. I do,” Tony reassures him, his arms open and welcoming. “Come here. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

He steps into the embrace, allowing himself to be comforted by Tony. “I just– I want to be myself. Will that be enough for you?”

“I know, honey. It’s alright. Everything is going to be alright.”

But he gasps as Tony’s arms tighten to the point of pain. “To– Tony, I can’t,” he begs, but Tony remains stone-faced, steadfast in his resolve. Confined as he is, he starts to thrash about, to hit and kick Tony everywhere he can reach, but Tony is unmoved. “I can’t… you’re– you’re crushing me,” he wheezes. 

Tony shushes him, but it does nothing to calm the frantic, struggling man. “Hush, Steve.” He covers Steve’s mouth, tears already springing forth at what he has to do next. “It will only hurt a little bit, and then you’ll come back, and we’ll get it right next time,” he promises. Steve fights and begins to cry, whimpering when he can’t break free.

 _You only know compromise,_ the first Steve had told him long ago.

And so there can be no compromise. Steve is counting on him to make it right, to make it perfect; he would expect better of them both.

“I love you, Steve. I’ll be better,” Tony cries alongside his Steve, just before he quickly twists, snapping the man’s neck, killing him instantly. Steve’s body goes limp.

“You’ll– you’ll be better, too. I’ll make sure of it.” Tony sinks to the floor, cradling his lover and gently stroking his face. “I thought– I thought if I waited longer until you were a little older… if you knew how much I needed you, how much you meant to me, it would be enough, but I was too forthright with you this time. Perhaps next time I won’t tell you as much about your past lives,” he says, caressing his cheek to wipe away his own tears that have fallen onto Steve’s face. Tony digs the heel of his palm into his own eyes, trying to staunch the flow at the source. “I’ll get it right. I– I just need–” He breaks down, sobbing uncontrollably.

Tony hears B.E.T.T.Y. approach. She knows what to do. She will take Steve from him, clean him up to prepare for burial in the mausoleum where he will rest in perpetuity beside himself and himself and himself – a long line of Steves stretching back almost a thousand years. F.R.I.D.A.Y. is already overwriting the security footage to show the man falling down a short flight of stairs, snapping his neck on the balustrade. If he lacks the blunt force trauma to support that series of events… it wouldn’t be the first time Tony paid off a medical examiner. The DA himself is a professional friend of his, so charges will never be brought up regardless of the findings.

Still…

“Wait,” he tells B.E.T.T.Y., his sobs calming to a hiccough. “It’s alright. I just– I just need a moment before you take him, if you please.”

The android halts and retreats as Tony turns back to Steve, composing himself with a deep steadying breath.

He begins, “I would like to tell you a story–”

* * *

In the time before memory, Steve visits Tony in medical in the aftermath of battle. It might have been against von Doom or Red Skull, maybe even the Wrecking Crew – it’s been so long, even Tony cannot keep the details straight – but whoever it was had really rung his bell. The blood had been voluminous and concerning, but superficial head wounds always look more serious than they are. He might not recall the cause, though he remembers Steve’s hands on his skin, the thick calluses across his fingertips and palms catching.

“Goddamn it, Tony. You need to be more careful,” Steve mumbles, angling his head to check the edges of the cut, the evenness of the invisible stitches. It will heal without so much as a scar.

“I am careful.”

Steve gives him a look.

So Tony revises his statement. “I am as careful as can be hurtling through the air in a tin can at speeds that would make a fighter pilot sweat,” he clarifies, adding, “which is to say: Very. A few bruised ribs. Nothing broken even.”

Steve sighs. He places a large hand on Tony’s knee. “You know I care about you.”

Tony swallows audibly. “I know.” They had been fucking for weeks now; Steve must like him just a smidge.

“I don’t know what I would do if something were to happen to you.”

That admission flusters Tony. “I’m fine, Cap. You shouldn’t worry about me.”

“But I do.” Steve leans over to kiss him on the corner of his mouth, avoiding the worst of the man’s busted lip. Then, he whispers, trembling against Tony’s skin. “When I saw you drop…” – a deep breath – “You almost died.”

Tony doesn’t know what to do with that, so he pats him on his shoulder. “Hey… hey, I’m right here, Steve,” Tony tries to comfort him, drawing him in closer into an awkward embrace, but his heart stutters – he should probably have J.A.R.V.I.S. run a diagnostic on the arc reactor – and his mouth is dry.

_Is this what love feels like?_

“Nothing is going to happen to me,” he reassures Steve.

But Steve pulls away, his brow scrunched and eyes staring hard at the hospital sheets smoothed over Tony’s knee. “Everyone– everyone always leaves, always dies on me. I don’t think I could bear it if–”

Tony takes his hand in his, drawing Steve’s eye. “Listen. I’m not going anywhere. It’s going to be you and me, growing old, arguing over dishware patterns and paint swatches and whether plaid shirts are ever appropriate attire. You and me. I promise.”

Steve is skeptical. “You can’t promise that.”

“Sure I can. Futurist, remember,” Tony replies resolutely with all the certainty of the very young and very foolish. “I’ll always be there for you. You can count on that.”

“I love you, sweetheart,” Steve tells him for the very first time.

Tony’s breath catches. A thousand years in the future, he will be brought to his knees, a broken soul grasping a broken body, but for now, when Tony is fresh and new, he is so happy. His heart sings, and his chest full to bursting from the groundswell of love.

“And I love you,” he says. He touches his forehead to Steve’s so they breathe the same air. One breath, one heartbeat, and a single vow between them:

“I love you, Steve. Forever and always.”

**Author's Note:**

> The inspiration for Kierst’s home district is Anaconda, MT. My paternal grandmother is from Anaconda, which used to be an active smelting town back in the day. She left when she was 19, but quite a few of the people she knew back home died early, in like their forties and fifties from cancer and heart disease, which are symptoms of chronic arsenic and heavy metal exposure. Anaconda is a Superfund site, which means it’s one of the most contaminated areas in the country. The water and soil is full of lead and arsenic from the smelter, and grandma said it used to smell like rotting eggs. 
> 
> In case this wasn’t clear, the original Steve was 616!Steve. He and Tony were in a relationship that soured before Steve’s death at the close of Civil War. In his guilt and grief over Steve’s death, Tony remembers only the good times with Steve and wants him back. He manages to become effectively immortal using Extremis, and though hand-wavey, necromancing stuff, he locks Steve’s soul into a reincarnation loop that has him returning approximately twenty years after the death of the prior Steve’s body. In the early cycles, when Steve returns, Tony (who always misses him greatly) courts him and they fall in love all over again, but (especially in later cycles) there’s always something that sours it. He’s not perfect like Tony remembers (Tony refuses to admit his memory might be imperfect) and/or Tony’s increasing restrictions/paranoia consistently drive him away. Steve always ends up dying, sometimes by Tony’s hand. Over time, his love for Steve twists into something dark. For a while, he hurts Steve before Steve can hurt him, but even that grows old as he craves Steve’s acceptance. Now, Tony does try to win him over by being the BEST BOYFRIEND EVER (or a twisted version of it anyway), but at the first sign of trouble, he doesn’t even wait for their relationship to go bad before he takes matters into his own hands to correct his mistake, vowing to fix it with a fresh new Steve.


End file.
